by S. N. Lewitt
"You are soldiers in a regiment: you fight," said the man with happy anticipation.
"You should meet our Executive Officer Tallis; you're of a piece," whispered Malise.
Nola Zim sighed as she turned to face him. "The two of us, then, no matter which way it goes?"
"On my honor," said the man, and swung his mace-and-chain, enjoying the deadly sound it made as it cleaved the air. "I am an honorable man. I fight for my leader as he requires me to fight, to uphold his honor. You need not fear; I understand the conduct of honorable combat. I will not offend you by unfair fighting."
"You won't object if we take a few precautions?" Malise drew a more impressive and obvious weapon, a shoulder-cannon; he rested it in firing position but did not aim it at anyone.
"It isn't necessary; you will see it is not." He held out his weapon. "Let us engage." The man with the mace-and-chain was clearly an experienced fighter. He moved carefully, never letting himself get off-balance. He shuffled rather than strode, he crouched and kept his upper body weaving as he waited for an opportunity. He presented as small a target as he could and still fight, giving himself a better chance at her. He swiped out with the mace-and-chain again, this time coming close enough to Zim that she was forced to jump back.
She held her stunner carefully, aiming for the legs. All she needed to do was knock him off his feet and she would be all right. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was kill or maim him, though with a stunner that would be ridiculously easy. Her jaw ached with tension.
He changed his tactics suddenly, bringing the mace-and-chain down, then rising up, his weapon striking upward, nearly clipping her shoulder. He took care not to aim for her head.
"All right," she said, and before he could lower his arm, she aimed her stunner at the arm holding the mace-and-chain. As she thumbed the charge button, the man shrieked, his weapon falling from unresponsive fingers. "Enough?" she asked.
For an answer he rushed at her, his undamaged arm upraised and his face dark with rage.
She thumbed the charge again—the man bucked at the impact of stun, and this time he collapsed unconscious.
"Anyone else?" Zim asked, the stunner still in her hand. She was trying to bring her breathing back to normal but without much success.
One of the men stepped forward, a figure somewhat taller than the Comes Riton; with a full-sunbleached beard and skin roughened by living in the open, he did not appear much like the Comes Riton, but when he spoke, the voice was unmistakably beautiful. "You have great courage, and you have shown honor as well as restraint. What do you want to know of me?" he asked, his sand-colored eyes intent on her.
Navigator Zim motioned to Malise to let her deal with the man. "The Comes Riton?" she asked, realizing she was on very uncertain ground.
"Syclicis' son," he corrected her. "I suppose Riton doesn't see it that way, though?" He permitted those with him to laugh a little before he continued. "I have nothing against my clone. How could I? It would mean I have something against myself."
"You haven't discovered any reason to resent him?'' Communications Leader Malise asked dubiously.
"Not the way you mean. We're clones, each is the other. He is as much my clone as I am his, since we are buds of the same source. We were vivified at the same time. It was never decided that I had fulfilled my purpose; I was gone long before then. Until we were almost four, he and I, we lived in the palace of poMoend. He still lives there, but I have been more fortunate." He shouldered his pike and indicated that his men should do the same. "I have lived for myself and not for where the cloning began. I am not the Comes Riton, master of poMoend, I am a trainer of animals and I live where camp is made. But I am a man of honor. I uphold the honor of my line."
"How do you mean that?" Zim asked.
"I would not dishonor myself and my lines with unworthy conduct." He indicated his fallen fighter. "You saw yourself that he served me honorably."
"He lost," said Zim.
"Of course he lost. To win would have dishonored me, and he would never do that." The Comes Riton's clone stared at Zim as if she were ignoring the obvious.
"You had him fight in order to lose," she said, taking care to keep her tone of voice level. "It was your intention to have him lose."
"What else could he do in honor? He could not refuse to fight, for that would dishonor you and me. He could not win, for that would be a greater disgrace." The Comes Riton's clone made an imperious gesture that was very like his other self. "How could you think I would be so lost to honor that I would countenance his winning against you? I am no savage or barbarian."
Malise nodded as if it all made sense to him. "Not fighting was dishonorable but winning was more dishonorable." He shrugged. "Makes sense to me."
"Malise," Zim warned, hearing the sarcasm in his voice.
"The same kind of sense as not having guards at the banquet because it would mean that the poMoend fighters assumed that the animal trainers were capable of fighting them. It's all the same screwy logic."
At the mention of that encounter the Comes Riton's clone's expression changed slightly. "Yes. The banquet. I saw you at the banquet. You were the most fascinating woman there, and the loveliest." He all but devoured Zim with his sand-colored eyes.
"'How could you see me at—" She cut herself short. "You were with the animal trainers."
"That is my trade, and I am one of the finest," said Syclicis' son without false modesty, sounding a great deal like the Comes Riton version of himself. "Ask anyone: I have an enviable reputation; I have more success than most."
"But not the other evening?" Zim suggested.
"It was a misfortune. Quite lamentable. Very nearly a disgrace. We did not intend it to happen." There was no indication that he was lying, but the sudden flatness of his tone was disturbing.
"A coincidence?" Malise said incredulously.
The man who had fought Zim stirred and moaned.
"Would you call your performance at the banquet successful?" Zim challenged the Comes Riton's clone.
He stared at a distant point over her left shoulder. "I am distressed that I did not keep control of my animals," he said, not quite able to conceal a glimmer of satisfaction. "As a trainer, I take pride in the behavior of my animals." He laughed once. "Perhaps you will be able to watch another time, when you will see how adept I can be with them."
"You're confident of that?" Malise asked, then indicated the men with Syclicis' son. "Were you looking for animals to replace the ones you have lost? Or were you hunting?"
"No," said the clone, unperturbed. "We were watching for the soldiers from poMoend."
"What soldiers?" asked Malise. "I thought soldiers were dishonorable. We have been informed that—"
"You don't think that they tell those over-bred curs who serve at court what the army is doing, do you?" The clone's smile bordered on a snarl. "They're as remote from us as the Comes Riton is." He turned toward Zim again, as if she were north and he a magnet. "Not my clone, and not his close associates; they are puppets. But there are many just below them, the second rank of the court, who hold the real power. They use it without honor. The rest is nothing more than posing and tradition. That was one of the first truths I discovered when Syclicis brought me into these mountains." He took a few steps back, then came up to Zim once more. "Among these people . . . they call me Tenre."
"Not Riton?" she asked, deliberately making the question light.
"No. Never Riton." He made a sign to the others but spoke directly to her. "Go about your work, then, but if any soldiers follow after you, dishonorably seeking to kill us, I will not die and I will hold you and all the Harriers responsible for any deaths."
"Oh, not all the Harriers," said Zim. "Just the Petits."
Haakogard read the latest zaps for the third time and then stared up at the ceiling of the small parlor. Why did they never tell him how complicated things were until he got there? He remembered the benign smile on Fleet Commodore Herd's wizened featu
res as the crafty old man gave him his orders and assured him that this venture would be a simple task, done quickly and without undue risk. "Would you like something to relax you, Mister Haakogard?" his Bunter inquired.
He glanced over his shoulder at the cyborg, trying to stifle the annoyance he felt at the interruption, though he knew the Bunter was responding to his monitored requirements. "Did you know there was a time when Bunters were called Butlers? I recall reading that when I was a boy."
"Butler is a pejorative for Bunter," said his Bunter without inflection. "It comes from Old Earth."
"No offense intended," said Haakogard quickly, knowing that the delicate tuning on these machines often made them touchy. "Just something I came across once, and the clerk sending the zaps signed off as Butler. Jogged my brain." He tossed the pages into the low table. "Don't recycle those yet; I need to review them, and I don't want them put into the system—we don't want Thunghalis or anyone else here retrieving them by accident." He stretched his long legs and got to his feet.
The Bunter tried again. "Would you like something to—"
"Relax me? I don't think so," he said, then changed his mind. "On second thought, bring me a small glass of that Standby Hooch. Warmed."
"A small glass of warmed Standby Hooch," the Bunter confirmed. It left the room at once, looking almost human in size and proportion—except for the four telescoping arms. By the time it returned, Haakogard was in his study, a stack of tutorials by his terminal. He looked up at the Bunter's discreet low two-note signal and motioned it to approach.
"Your Standby Hooch, sir; and the Mromrosi wishes to see you," said the Bunter as he held out the glass on an antique silver tray that had come from the stuffiest of the First Fifty-Six Colonies Victoria Station.
"Thank you," said Haakogard, and the words appeared on the opposite wall. "Erase that," he told the wall.
"What shall I tell the Mromrosi?" the Bunter inquired politely. Bunters did everything politely.
Haakogard sighed and shut down the terminal. "Send him in. I need to talk to him anyway." He leaned back in his chair as the Bunter left and contemplated the ceiling with a supreme blankness of expression until the Mromrosi toddled through the door. "Have a seat if you want one," Haakogard offered.
The Mromrosi selected one of the chairs to lean against. He was a very pale beige and his single eye, enormous, green as sunlight coming through new leaves, appeared brighter by contrast. "What have you decided?" he asked without preamble.
"I haven't decided anything," said Haakogard. "Except that we haven't enough information about this place. The response from the Hub was premature, at least in my estimation. Commodore Herd gave his assurances to the Comes Riton, but I don't think he knew what was at stake here." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "For that matter, neither do we."
"A very exact thing," said the Mromrosi, a little blush suffusing his massive ringlets.
"How the devil did these people get it into their heads that cloning was the answer to leadership? And the elaborate codes they have regarding the clones, and all honor tied up in it." He slapped his hands down on the arms of his chair. "Maybe the first Comes Riton thought it was a good idea that his entire armed forces take an oath never to attack him in any form, but look at the mess it's causing now. And it's lucky that it's only happened once. What if rival factions at court got hold of one clone apiece and each side insisted that theirs was the true clone? They couldn't actually fight about it, could they? That would mean dishonor, wouldn't it. So they would have to resort to covert actions." He glanced toward the Mromrosi. "For all we know, that's going on right now, and there are people in this government who are working on the sly."
"I do not think so," said the Mromrosi. "Why would they bother to contact the Hub and ask the Petits to assist them if that were the case?" He gestured with three of his legs, making a complicated, invisible pattern that Haakogard did not understand. "They did not bother to contact the capital, but came directly to the Magnicate Alliance. Surely that is significant."
"It means they don't trust anyone in Bilau," said Haakogard. "Nothing new in that. The provinces often distrust the capitals."
"But for what cause?" asked the Mromrosi. "Why would that be a factor in what seems a fairly simple case of a family dispute? Surely the courts of Bilau are more prepared to appreciate the difficulties than the Petits are." He bounced several times. "Yes, there are factors here that are hidden."
Haakogard bit back a sharp retort. "What about the Emerging Planet Fairness Court? Is this a case where you would . . . advise them?"
"It is not the issue. This is a strictly planetary crisis, and we have no mandate in these cases. Our interests lie elsewhere." He made a low, rough sound, not quite a growl, not quite a hum. He did not change color.
"Well, whether it's in your jurisdiction or not, if you get any good ideas, I hope you'll pass them on to me," said Haakogard, feeling rather weary. "I haven't got a clue about it yet."
"There is time still. More information is needed," said the Mromrosi, shaking himself. "If the Wammgalloz were with you, instead of me, they might perceive the solution more quickly."
Haakogard shuddered at the thought. "No, thank you." He had never become used to the sight of the Wammgalloz, enormously tall aliens, known for their tremendous intellects and solid judgment. To Haakogard—and to most humans—the Wammgalloz looked too much like tremendous predatory insects; to the Wammgalloz, humans appeared undeveloped and deformed, and they smelled atrocious. Both humans and Wammgalloz avoided each other except when the congresses of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court required they meet.
"That is what the Wammgalloz think, too," said the Mromrosi with a trace of amusement.
"Most of the EPFC are pretty hard to take, for us," Haakogard added. "You're different."
"Fortunately," said the Mromrosi, and skibbled toward the door. "By the way, I have received word that a small unit of Grands are scheduled to stop in Bilau very soon."
This caught all Haakogard's attention. "What?" he asked, sitting upright.
"That is what I have been informed, through the Court." He faded to a soft peach shade. "I thought it strange that you have not been notified. Unless you have been?"
"No," said Haakogard, his eyes darkening. He cursed inwardly. Had the Commodore decided to intervene after all?
"Perhaps it has nothing to do with your mission," the Mromrosi suggested.
"And perhaps Spica's going nova tomorrow," said Haakogard. Reluctantly he added, "Thanks for letting me know."
"It is part of my task here," said the Mromrosi, and slipped out the door.
A small unit of Grands were coming to Bilau: Haakogard turned this over in his thoughts but could discern no reason for it, which made him more apprehensive than ever. The Grands never did anything by chance. Commodore Herd had hinted it might be necessary to send the Grands, but he had not said why. Haakogard wanted to know more about it, but knew he could not zap the Hub for information, since he had not officially been told of the event. "And who's to say they'd tell me the truth?" he asked the air. Better to concentrate on his immediate problems here, he told himself. Maybe the Mromrosi would be able to keep him informed about the Grands.
He took the tutorial cassette out of the feeder and slipped in another one: the history of the settlement of Neo Biscay. The most nagging piece of information which had been repeated in three of the four tutorials he had examined was that the First colonization would have numbered among the First Fifty-Six if they had been able to establish and maintain contact with any of the other Colonies. As it was, they were occasionally able to reach Old Earth, but by that time the planet was little more than a museum and a tourist attraction, and Neo Biscay was officially forgotten. The arrival of the N'djowul had ended the isolation, but not for the better. And by the time the N'djowul were gone, the Second Colonization arrived. Was the First Colonization truly part of the First Fifty-Six, as the records of Old Earth suggested? "Support for this theory?
" Haakogard asked when he had reviewed all the tutorials.
"The names of the two ships were recorded when the Ninety went out," the screen answered, words appearing on its surface as it spoke. "Of the five artifacts brought here for identification in case the colony did not survive, four are still in the hands of the Other Colonists."
"So, strictly speaking, we ought to be the representatives of the First colony and not the Second," Haakogard mused. "I wonder if Fleet Commodore Herd knows this? Would the arrival of the Grands support the First or Second Colonization?"
"This tutorial is not equipped to advise you," said the wall screen as Haakogard took a long, slow swig of his Standby Hooch.
Trumpets and gongs announced the arrival of the Comes Riton at the four Katana-class Skimmers, and three men demanded that the Most Excellent Comes be admitted to the company of Mere Line Commander Haakogard.
"They'll keep up the noise until you see them," Group Leader Perzda warned him. "And the longer you take, the louder they'll get, at least that's what my tutorials say." She hesitated. "You could deputize one of us—perhaps Zim?"
There were hoots of approval at that suggestion.
Haakogard looked at her across the conference table, his hand lifted in admonition. "No-no-no, Viridis. She's got them riled up already." He signaled to his Bunter, which waited on the far side of the conference room. "I need one of my parade uniforms, but not a full dress one. Ask the Senior Bunter to make the selection. He'll know which one is right."
"You're going outside, then?" Group Leader Perzda inquired critically. "Don't you think that might be a bit dangerous?"
"It's more dangerous staying inside. These Neo Biscayans, or whatever you call them, have hot fuses." He reached for the all-deck announcer. "This is Line Commander Haakogard. I want Dachnor, Fennin, and Chanliz to meet me in proper parade dress in half one Standard Hour in the center of the formation. Other members of the crew stand by, parade dress optional. Pangbar Thunghalis, please remain in your quarters unless the Senior Bunter advises you otherwise. Observer Mromrosi is welcome to come with us."